


bring you to my hell

by TheSightlessSniper



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: A little bit dark, A little bit romantic, I wrote this in like half an hour please don't kill me, M/M, Mentions of Breathplay, Mentions of Orgies, Smut, They have sex up against a wall, This was just an excuse to write smut, literally just smut, mentions of bondage, possibly slightly ooc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:28:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26161159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSightlessSniper/pseuds/TheSightlessSniper
Summary: He would swear under oath that it was Lord Henry’s book that had corrupted him.And it if was not the book, it was Henry himself.
Relationships: Dorian Gray/Henry Wotton
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	bring you to my hell

**Author's Note:**

> I recently actually tried reading a book instead of just fanfic, so I read 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'.
> 
> I'm not sure how much fic I'll be writing for this specific fandom, but this was nagging at me to be written as soon as I finished reading the book today...so here it is. 1000+ words of smuttiness and overdescription.
> 
> Enjoy!

He would swear under oath that it was Lord Henry’s book that had corrupted him.

And it if was not the book, it was Henry himself.

Dorian slammed a hand to the wall in front of him, a drawn-out wail pouring from him. He’d discovered all kinds of pleasure over the course of the years. He’d been brought into the agony—and ecstasy—of bondage and domination play, of being whipped raw and whipping another raw until their mind was a pained, blissful haze. He had taken part in orgies in the midst of drug-fuelled fugues, allowing women, men, anyone to mount him, mounting anyone who consented to his touch. He had tasted poisons and potions and eaten absurd quantities of food, ingested items that would have killed any other man, or at least, any man without a portrait and a pact with an unspoken, unseen force. Was it a demon? The devil himself, perhaps? All he knew was all of the pleasures of the flesh, the sins and debauchery that people whispered of reading about in penny dreadfuls and discreetly-passed erotic novellas, snuck from hand to hand in a party, passed under a table in a public drinking establishment over cigarettes and wine, slipped into a pocket, a satchel, a sleeve. He lived it, revelled in it, let the portrait painted so long ago take in the corruption. He had spent many nights returning to the painting, imagining, almost sure that the painting itself had begun to smell fetid along with its visual degradation, soaked in a phantom stench of alcohol, blood, sexual fluids, diseases, rotting food and water in which flowers had died. It reeked, and drew in all the ugliness that it could.

Its capacity to take in his destruction seemed endless.

Henry wrapped a hand around his throat, letting his fingers dance down, around to his pulse points. His hips lifted him against the wall, pressing hard and pushing deeper inside. ‘Do you think me the devil?’

Dorian whined, open-mouthed and panting and letting his head fall back. Did he? Was Henry the devil, slipping him the book, tempting him with forbidden fruit and sending him down the long road to ruin? He was no Eve, no belly to be filled and to bear Cain and Abel, but Henry could have been Adam, tempted so by him, pressing deep inside as he was now, filling him with seed that was hot and sour and burned inside as it slipped back out to the floor below after. He had drawn him in, seduced him with shadowy charm and a older face with despised age lines that Dorian refused to have mar his own skin and yet on Henry, it only made him more handsome alongside his devil-may-care attitude. Henry had once repulsed him with his ideas on love and marriage, and his apparent cynicism, and his scandalous disregard for social niceties, and yet…

They had done this more than once, consistently danced around the question of whether it would happen again every time before conceding, following the other into a back room or into a concealed part of a garden at a party. And Henry would fill him again, first with fingers slicked with tallow and oil, whispering filthy words and sweet nothings into the shell of his ears, then with his cock, thick and wondrous and just made to fit his body, it seemed. He would have him bent over a table, pushed roughly against a wall, in front of a mirror, fuck him sweetly and roughly face-to-face on the bed of a guest chamber for the maids to contend with the messes. And each time, it would feel sweeter, more wonderful than the last, would leave him dripping with sweat and satisfied, but only for so long. It was inevitable that they would come together again, like flames burning the moth’s wings away. Lord Henry himself would be his ruin, it seemed.

Dorian gasped, eyelids fluttering, tears slipping from the corners. ‘Oh…you may be the devil. But I will gladly be damned by you—‘ his sentence cut abruptly as he was pushed forward again, palms flattening on the wall. Henry pulled out, thrust back in hard and deep and somehow finding that strange little spot inside him that blossomed with pleasure as it was caressed. A choked moan, forehead to the wall, and Dorian pushed back into the motion, allowing Henry’s hand to tighten on his throat, press the air out of him without resisting.

‘Do you think me wicked, Dorian?’ His voice was dark, deep, the breathlessness making him tremble.

‘Yes, yes! You have have shown me—ah—the path to Hell, led me by the hand down to the gates!’ He fell quiet for a moment, gasping again and again and letting Henry move inside him. It was all too much, and he felt his knees weaken as he gave in and tipped over the edge, spilling over the wall, the floor, the edge of his shirt that hung unceremoniously in front of his prick and was caught in the crossfire. And he felt him follow soon after, that hot slick sensation of it filling him inside, then slipping out, chasing after the softening length that was being pulled out of him and tucked back into tailored trousers, seed and tallow still clinging to the veins and ridges. They would both smell of sex, the reek of it hanging over them all evening. The evening festivities—an orgy hosted by a mask-wearing woman who everyone knew was the wife of a politician—would start in the other room soon; the evidence of their tryst—of Henry wanting him alone, to himself—hidden by everyone else’s debauchery.

Henry held him up, one hand still on his throat, turning his head to press lips against lips and tongue against tongue with a wet smack. ‘You…you’re less than a demon, but more than a human, and you’re ever so tempting. But I am I only human, Dorian.’

Clothes were pulled back on, a handkerchief being wiped down between his cheeks to catch the evidence before being tucked away into a concealed pocket to be disposed of later.

_Only human_. Dorian doubted that fact very much.


End file.
